Harding tries to concentrate on anything but Chase. House half watches her as she reads her book, fiddling with the straw from a long discarded drink. She twists it in the middle, then stops. Pushing her book to the side, she does it again.
"What are you doing?"
She's moved to the book shelf, and has started flipping through a detailed diagram of blood vessels, settling on one that shows the uterus.
"Hm? Oh, nothing. I was just wondering something is all." A flush settles over her cheeks as she looks back down, running her fingers along the red lines.
"You have an idea. What is it?"
"No, it's nothing. I wouldn't know-"
"Tell me."
"Well, like," she sighs. "When people die of alcohol consumption it's because the vessels in their esophagus have burst right? Cause of pressure?"
"You think she has uterine cirrhosis?" he's trying to intimidate her; no one can survive on his team long without a thick skin, but luckily Harding isn't easily frightened.
"No, I think something's causing the blood vessels in one place to be constricted, and the ones in her uterus are bursting, only no one saw because tissue build-up is already pretty thick for her upcoming period."
He considers her. "Interesting idea, unlikely. I like it. Go find Cameron and tell her to run an ultrasound to analyze blood flow. She's looking for an ovarian torsion."
She nods and hurries away.
They're in the lab still, computer screens flashing indefinite graphs and numbers. Harding's eyes linger on Chase before she pulls the door open.
"Cameron."
"Hm?"
"House says he wants you to run an ultrasound checking for irregular blood flow and an ovarian torsion."
"An ovarian torsion? He thinks pressure is causing this?"
Harding shrugs. "Dunno. I just deliver the messages." She stays in place, staring at Chase as Cameron leaves. He's bent over a microscope, purposefully not looking at her. It's all she wants to walk over to him, to lean her cheek on his head and know everything's going to be okay. After three years she still knows exactly how his hands feel on her waist, how his hair smells, how his cheek feels the afternoon after he's shaved.
"What d'you want, Harding?"
Her heart breaks a little at his tone, but breaks even more at the fact that he called her Harding. She runs from the lab without saying anything.
The clock on the wall ticks out dully, the cheap lamp that lights the room flickers; nothing works properly in Harding's flat.
"Winnie, supper." she calls over her shoulder. The brightly colored mac 'n cheese slumps into the chipped bowl. "Here, eat your apple first."
Mother and daughter sit on the floor on either side of the coffee table. The carpet is flat, wearing, but clean as Harding could manage.
"Did anything exciting happen today, love?"
The little girl chatters on, unperturbed by a full mouth, or the fact that her mother's stomach growls. Harding takes a few bites of pasta as Winnie eats her apple, then leaves the rest for her daughter.
Her reluctance to eat would become clear if anyone examined the cupboards' contents: one jar of peanut butter, marked carefully so she knows how much to ration out each day; three boxes of mac n' cheese - each needing to last 2 meals; half a bag of pretzels; some cornflakes. A mostly-there loaf of bread lies on the counter. The problem lies in the refrigerator as well: Harding refuses to deny a three year old proper food, and much of her grocery budget goes to the apples and carrots in the drawer, and the cans of vegetables sitting a top the fridge.
Even more of the grocery budget goes to paying off her late aunt's medical bills.
After tucking Winnie in in the single small bedroom, Harding let's herself collapse. The water in the shower is turned on cold, but she can still feel her face getting splotchier and splotchier as she cries.
"FUCK!" a cockroach sits on the sink as she climbs out of the shower, and she goes after it with a towel, still crying. A stream of obscenities comes out of her mouth. She casts the towel aside, disposes of the carcass, and sits on the side of the tub, burying her face in her hands.
Stop being a child, she scolds herself. You're a god damn adult, pull your shit together.
"Great job Bo!" Mark grabs her arm as she sheds off the harness. "I saw GreenMan checking you out."
"GreenMan? Like the energy drinks?" There's a visible brightness in her eyes; her face is pink from exertion, glowing under a sheen of sweat and sea water.
"You're on your way to the world's kiddo! We've got to start training for Rio!"
"Just give me a day off, Mark!" She says, laughing and skipping backwards. "My family came!"
He waves her off and she turns and runs towards a small crowd.
"There she is!" a man holds out his arms and she catapults into them. "Little sister!"
"Grant! You're here!" a large kiss lands on his cheek.
"Yeah, well, they didn't give me much of a choice," he teases.
"You did great, Bowen." A taller man stands in the middle. He has a perpetual slouch, and lacks the cheerful demeanour of Grant and Bowen.
"Thanks Bastille." She kisses his cheek as well. "Are you doing all right?" He nods, but his eyes are tired, and theres a shadow of a beard on his normally clean shaven face.
Jillian grabs her into a hug."That was wonderful, Bo! How aren't you scared up there?"
"Guess I didn't inherit your's and Bas' brains." She hugs her sister carefully, as if in any moment she could break in two. The hard ridges of her shoulder and spine stick out. "And even little baby Gage! How you doing Gage-y?"
She jumps on the youngest and puts him in a choke hold.
"I'm gonna let that one slide, Bo, but only because I'm impressed."
"Thanks baby brother."
She stands among them, radiating happiness. To any passerby, it would be obvious that they're family: their straight noses, their nondescript hazel eyes. There are matching smiles on Grant, Bo, and Gage's faces, but Bastille and Jillian are more sombre. Jillian tries to be happy, but lives in fear that someone will make her eat, while Bastille hasn't left his flat except to go to work in months; the fact that he's out at all is a miracle.
"Oh, Bo," Grant begins in a goading tone. "We met your boyfriend."
"Boyfriend?"
"Blonde? Rich?"
"Oh, Robert? He's here?"
"O-oh, Robert?" Gage mocks the way she looks around. "You're totally fucking him."
"Am not! We're mates."
"Mates in bed?"
"Oh, shut up you twat!" she rolls her eyes. "Ask him; we're just mates. We drink beer and I helped him pick up a girl and -"
Jill giggles. "Look how red her face is!"
"So not a mate that you fuck, just one that you fancy," Grant exclaims gleefully. "Oh look, here he comes. HI ROBERT."
"Oh fuck me." Bo covers her face.
"I'm sure he will if you ask."
Robert smiles as he comes up behind her, never thinking that in less than two years, Bo will be the only one of the Harding siblings left.